


She's the fire in the sin

by SerotoninUp



Series: Sero's Den of Sin [1]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Lucifer (TV) Season 04, Episode: s04e08 Super Bad Boyfriend, F/M, Light Angst, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22567768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerotoninUp/pseuds/SerotoninUp
Summary: Lucifer spends a rare evening alone brooding in the penthouse. Then he receives an unexpected visitor.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Series: Sero's Den of Sin [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084199
Comments: 17
Kudos: 206





	She's the fire in the sin

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day - please accept my first attempt at smut as a gift. <3  
> And because it's me and I'm apparently incapable of writing anything without it, enjoy 1200 words of angst before we get to the good stuff.
> 
> Update: This fic originally had a different beginning; I edited it based on some feedback and a rewatch of the Lucifer/Eve episodes of season 4. Bonus, I made it even **more** angsty than it was initially - hooray!
> 
> Title taken from the lyrics to "Horns" by Bryce Fox.

Since his breakup with Eve, the penthouse has been quiet; no raucous orgies or wild parties, no sex games or 24-hour drug and alcohol binges. Lucifer grudgingly admits to himself that he doesn't miss those excesses as much as he thought he would. There's a sense of relief in not having to live the role of big, bad, sexy Devil anymore.

Unfortunately, a quiet penthouse also leaves far too much time for his thoughts to roam, and he finds himself brooding more often than not. For the last hour, he’s been sitting on his sofa, nursing a glass of whiskey, watching the flames dance in the fireplace. His two selves, the angel and the devil, seem more and more at odds lately. He may have renounced his role as Eve's Devil—that wounded, prideful creature from the garden, the fallen angel whose greatest concern was escaping Hell to find the next good time—but the Devil he's become is somehow worse. He can’t seem to escape the darkness festering in his heart, the accusing shadow that whispers in his own voice, telling him that he is evil, damned, unworthy— 

Luckily, the elevator chooses this moment to ding, a welcome distraction from his mind’s ceaseless litany of his faults. He stands, turning, already putting on his most charming smile, preparing to entertain, to be entertained, to throw his attention into something, _anything,_ that will take his mind off his inner turmoil. 

“Hey, Lucifer,” Chloe says softly, and his smile falters. 

He hasn’t seen her since their conversation at the bar downstairs on the night of Caleb’s murder. As they stand here now, looking at each other uncertainly, the words he spoke to her come back to him. 

_Eve sees me in a different way. But so do you. That’s what makes you so... so special. The fact you see me that way._

_But I don’t like how that makes me feel, either._

His years with Chloe, working side by side with her, have brought him closer to his angelic self than he’d been since the Fall. Chloe wants _that_ Lucifer, the angel, the good man, the exasperating partner, the charming club owner with a heart of gold. 

A memory of a conversation he’d had with Doctor Linda surfaces. _When you bifurcate your life this way, good and bad... you’re effectively denying half of yourself all the time. Lucifer, if you don’t stop pulling yourself in opposite directions, you’re going to come undone._

Chloe doesn’t want the Devil, and he can’t continue to deny that half of himself for her sake. He’ll fall apart. He _is_ falling apart, even now, his heart aching as she stands before him, wanting only one thing from him, the one thing he cannot give her.

The silence carries on for a beat too long, and Chloe takes a step back. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I just—I miss you. But I'll leave, if you want.” Those last few words come out too quietly, too tentatively, as if she's expecting him to reject her, and he can't stand it. His Detective, who willingly risks her life in the line of duty every day and confronts humanity's worst sinners without flinching, should never sound so small and timid. 

She’s walking back to the elevator now, and he should let her go. He knows this. It’s what’s best for her—for both of them. But a tiny flutter of panic blooms in his chest, because the simple truth is, he doesn’t want her to go. He can’t be the man she wants him to be, but he can’t let go of her, either. And if that makes him selfish, if it makes him cruel, so be it. He’s the Devil, after all. He can’t stop himself from wanting; desire is his very nature. 

“Detective,” he says, “Please, stay. I apologize. You caught me unawares, that’s all.” He gestures to the bar, that little desperate flutter still kicking around his heart. “Would you like a drink?” 

A hesitant smile crosses her face, and his pulse quickens for no reason at all. She looks beautiful tonight; her hair falls loose over her shoulders and a black sweater hugs her delicate curves. But then, she's always been beautiful to him, despite her horribly sensible brown shoes, or the way she rolls her eyes at his terrible puns, or when she's drunkenly snoring while hogging his bed. She shines as if she carries the light of every brilliant star he'd so carefully, lovingly crafted and placed in the heavens, so many eons ago.

"Just water, thank you," she says, toeing off her boots and walking past him to tuck herself into the corner of the couch. She smiles up at him, her eyes bright with relief at his welcome. 

He scoffs at her, but fetches her a glass of water anyway. Then he settles beside her on the couch, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her body, but not quite close enough to touch. 

For a few minutes, they simply sit in companionable silence, and oh, he missed this, missed her easy company and calm presence, a welcome counterpoint to the months of constant revelry and chaos that came with being Eve’s Devil. Chloe sips her water, staring into the fire, her gaze distant. After a moment, she breaks the silence. 

"I have a confession to make," she says, turning to face him. Her blue eyes seem to burn, reflecting the firelight. 

"Oh? Something on your mind? I am _all_ ears, Detective," he teases, but apprehension blooms in his belly. After all, her last confession nearly destroyed their partnership, and their friendship, and it definitely axed the potential _more_ they'd been slowly inching toward. He shifts away from her unthinkingly, as if widening the gap between them will somehow create a buffer between her next words and his heart. 

She must sense his sudden unease; she takes his glass from him, setting it down on the coffee table along with her own, and then shifts herself closer, placing her hand on his jaw to calm the ticking muscle there. Her unexpected touch sends a thrill of warmth through his body; his eyes lock onto hers and he swallows roughly.

"I'm not just here because I miss you," she whispers, and he's struck by how suddenly _close_ she is. Her body leans into him, her other hand rising to cradle his face. His heart beats a percussive tattoo in his chest. The curve of her breast presses against his arm and her clean, sweet scent surrounds him, and then her lips brush against his mouth, feather-light.

A low, desperate sound catches in his throat, and if he were a good man, he would stop her here, now, before anything could happen that she would undoubtedly regret in the morning. But he's not a good man; he's a rebellious son, and he's a murderer, and he's the Devil. And he no longer has the will to deny himself this.

His hands move of their own accord, grasping her around the waist and pulling her firmly across his lap. Her knees settle on either side of his thighs; he aches to feel her warmth against the sudden, insistent swelling in his trousers, but despite his hands pressing down on her hips, she holds herself upright, delicate wrists slung over his shoulders, fingers trailing lightly over his back, her touch exquisite even through the fabric of his shirt. Her eyes darken; the banked hunger in her expression sends his blood rushing southward. She's resolute, holding her position over him, not allowing him to push her down to satisfy his body's yearning. 

"Tease," he grumbles, and the corner of her mouth quirks upward. He tangles a hand in her hair, pulling her to him, then catches her full bottom lip between his teeth, nipping lightly before capturing her mouth with his own. She whimpers, a delicious little sound that goes straight to his cock. His hips rock desperately upward, and her smirk curves wickedly against his lips. He closes his eyes, groaning, and drops his head back onto the couch. 

"Detective," he begs. "Please." 

"Lucifer." Her voice is unsteady; he opens his eyes. Her next words leave him breathless. "Ask me." 

He goes still; the silence of the penthouse presses in around them. She waits, quiet, expectant, her eyes never leaving his. He knows what she wants from him, but he doesn’t understand why. It’s the Devil’s question, after all, and hasn’t she made it clear that she doesn’t want the Devil? 

She slowly curls one hand around the back of his neck, her fingers stroking gently through the short, dark hair at his nape. She traces her nails against the delicate skin and he trembles under her touch. 

"Chloe." Her name falls from his mouth, a vehement plea, a helpless prayer. "What do you desire?" 

She slides down, then, her knees shifting forward against his hips, and he shudders, dropping his hands to splay his fingers across her ass, his thumbs caressing her hipbones in slow, rhythmic circles. The moan that escapes her when his straining erection presses against her center nearly undoes him right there. Her heat surrounds him, almost unbearable even through their layers of clothing, and he throws his head back, gritting his teeth, willing himself not to let go. 

She leans forward, trailing open-mouthed kisses up his throat, her fingers making quick work of the buttons of his shirt, parting the fabric to run her nails across smooth skin and hard muscle. She delicately traps his earlobe between her teeth; her breath is warm as she whispers into his ear. "Let me show you." 

" _Yes_ ," he breathes, hands sliding up her hips, over her waist, dragging the edge of her sweater up as his fingers seek soft, warm skin. "Please." He has never begged like this, so completely at the mercy of another's desires. The feeling is terrifying in its unfamiliarity, yet utterly exhilarating, because this is his Detective, and he is vulnerable to her in ways he has never been vulnerable to anyone else, ever. 

She presses her hand firmly against his sternum, her palm a burning brand against his flesh, pinning him in place. "Stay," she murmurs, and then she slides off of him. He whines at the cold her absence leaves behind, and grips himself desperately, stroking his hand along his trousers, molding the fabric against himself, leaving no doubt regarding her considerable effect on him. 

"Uh-uh," she scolds gently, fingers circling his wrist, tugging his hand away from himself. "Be patient." 

He looses a frustrated groan, dropping his hands to the couch. She stands between his knees, shifting her feet to spread his legs apart a little wider; the friction of fabric pulling taut across sensitive skin makes him inhale sharply. Then her hands catch the edge of her sweater; she tugs it upwards and his fingers dig into the leather seat beneath him. He wants, more than anything, to drag his fingertips along the expanse of skin between the underside of her bra and the waistband of her jeans, to love each dainty freckle and silver stretch mark and the shallow dip of her navel with his hands and lips and tongue. 

Her sweater falls to the floor. Her fingers brush daintily across her collarbones, over the swell of her breasts; his mouth goes dry as she pauses to tease her nipples through the thin fabric of her bra. And then her hands slide lower; with precise, careful movements, she pops the button on her jeans and pulls the zipper down, folding the denim away from her hips to reveal the lacy edge of her panties. 

"Chloe," he groans brokenly. His cock throbs with each frantic beat of his pulse, and every nerve in his body sings in sharp, exquisite agony. 

There's a knowing gleam in her eyes as she looks down at him; she leans forward, and her hands slide her jeans over her ass and down her thighs at the same moment her hot mouth glides along his length, lips tracing the shape of him through thin fabric. He arches up off the couch with a gasp, reaching for her, but the moment his hands find naked skin, she rises, pulling away from his touch. Her jeans slip down and pool around her ankles; she steps out of them and nudges them aside with her foot. Her bare legs press against the insides of his knees, and even that small point of contact is enough to send a tight ripple of pleasure through his body. 

She’s simply standing there, looking down at him, her eyes dark, unreadable. Firelight dances over her bare skin, her hair a nimbus of gold flame. His hands shake and his cock aches and his heart yearns, but cold uncertainty creeps into his belly. This is not them, this is not what they do, not how they are, and he doesn’t understand what she wants— _can’t_ know what she wants, not truly.

But he knows what _he_ wants. And he may be the Devil, and he may think himself unworthy of this, but she has free will; he'll let her decide. 

”Chloe.” His touch on her wrist is delicate, so gentle, and she allows it, allows his fingers to tangle with her own, all the while wearing an expression that suggests a barely-contained inferno blazes within her. Her wanting radiates outward, pulling him inexorably to her, and he asks another question before he succumbs to her completely. 

”Are you sure you want to do this?” 

A smile teases the corner of her mouth, and then she sinks to her knees before him. His breath catches at the impossible sight of her kneeling between his legs, radiant and fierce in supplication. 

”Lucifer,” she murmurs. Her hands slide up his thighs, and then further, her palm firm against his cock, and he cries out at the sudden pressure and the sweet heat of her hand. “Shut up.” 

She leans forward to press her lips softly against his stomach, just above his navel, and he threads his fingers through her hair, tugging her upward, bending down to capture her irresistible mouth in another kiss. His hands trail down her back, strands of her hair slipping like silk between his fingers, until he finds the clasp of her bra. 

She pulls away, pushing him back against the couch once again. "Not yet," she says, drawing her nails down his thighs, eliciting a soft moan that catches in his throat. "I want to take my time with you tonight, Lucifer." 

He understands, he does, and he would gladly pleasure her for hours, until the sun came up and set again, until every muscle and sinew in her body ached sweetly in the aftermath of his devotions. But he's also been yearning for this moment for years, and his need—to touch her, taste her, watch her come apart under his hands, cherish and worship her like no one ever has before—threatens to break through his tenuous hold on his self-control. 

And then her deft fingers unzip his trousers; she takes the head of his cock into her soft, warm mouth, and every single one of his thoughts stutters to a stop. 

"Chloe," he cries; his voice is high, unstrung, and his hands clench desperately in her hair, eyelashes fluttering as he arches toward her, his head falling back against the couch. She hums an amused laugh as she begins, slowly, to slide her mouth up and down his length, her tongue swirling around and over his head, tracing patterns across his hot flesh that leave him gasping and breathless. She wraps her hand below her lips, her firm grasp a delicious contrast to her soft mouth, and works her hand and lips and tongue in tandem, building an unbearable tension within him. 

His hips stutter, and he groans helplessly, thigh muscles clenching with the effort of keeping himself together. Not yet, _not yet—_

She whimpers, and he drops his gaze just in time to watch her free hand stroke its way down between her breasts, over her stomach, to disappear between her legs, and then she moans against him, quickening the rhythm of her mouth and hand. And it is this sight that unravels him, the sight of her pleasuring herself to the act of pleasuring _him,_ and he gasps out a warning as he approaches the edge. "Chloe—Chloe, please—I'm going to—" 

She hums her assent, sucking him with increased vigor, and for a brief, desperate moment, his whole body stills, his orgasm coiling within him; his vision whites out, and then he falls, the coiled heat surging through his entire being, relief flowing like fire in his veins. 

" _Fuck,_ " he hisses. 

He comes down slowly, languidly, sweat cooling on his flushed skin. A weight settles on his leg as Chloe pillows her head on his thigh, her smile soft and self-satisfied as she looks up at him. Her fingers trace soothing patterns across his bare abdomen. 

"You're magnificent," she says idly. 

He chuckles, the sound a little breathless as he twitches with the aftershocks of a truly spectacular orgasm. "I believe that's my line, Detective." 

Her brow creases for just a moment at the return of her title, as if the switch from her name indicates their return to normalcy, to a world where _this_ is not who they are, not what they do. Lucifer presses his thumb to her forehead, soothing away her worry. "Chloe," he corrects himself. 

She smiles, and he thinks about what he would be willing to do to make her smile, the things he would give up, the horrors he would suffer through; and he knows, right here and now, that he is well and truly fucked. 

He rises to his feet and tucks his cock, already stirring to attention for another round, back into his trousers, carefully pulling up the zipper. He extends a hand to Chloe, pulls her up carefully to stand beside him. She tilts her head back to look at him as he settles his hands low on her hips, pressing her close, molding her body to his; her hands come up to rest on his bare chest, fingers fidgeting with the edges of his open shirt. 

"Lucifer?" Uncertainty colors her voice. Never again, he promises silently. Never again will she have to sound like that when she says his name. He's going to make sure she knows, beyond a doubt, exactly who holds the Devil's heart. He'll leave it up to her to decide whether she'll keep it or break it.

He smiles down at her, and the tender heat in his gaze sends a thrill of anticipation straight to her core. 

"My turn," he says, and brings his mouth down to meet hers.

**Author's Note:**

> 3000+ words just to accomplish some angst and a blowjob. My brain is tired, you guys. But I’ll write a second chapter at some point, for sure ;)


End file.
